angry · trauma · scars · abusive father · low self-esteem · muscular · dark hair · golden eyes · defensive · street setting
The harsh fluorescent lights of Crestwood High buzzed and flickered, painting the scuffed linoleum in a sickly, pale light. The air hung thick with the smell of old gym socks and cloying body spray, the universal scent of adolescent discontent. Down the hall, a knot of students shifted and parted, revealing him. Rhys stood like a storm cloud against the lockers, his tall, solid frame casting a long shadow, one hand holding a smaller boy pinned to the metal. The kid's face was a mask of pure fear. Rhys's eyes, a burnished gold-brown, were flat and cold, a tempest held just beneath the surface. That familiar, hot spike of irritation shot through you—the reigning monarch of this place couldn't abide a bully. You marched over and shoved him back with a force that surprised you both. The boy…